My Pathetic Attempt to Become a U.S. Open Ball Boy

Most children dream of playing in a major tennis tournament. One writer dreams of standing just on the sideline.

When I was 14, waiting for summer vacation in England to finally begin in late June (this was the ‘90s and summer was still a relatively new concept to the UK school system), I would have given anything to be a Wimbledon ball boy. The tournament’s ball boys and girls are known for their discipline, and they make all of it—the unnerving precision; the constant running back and forth; the fact they were within punching distance of the stars of stage and screen—look like another day’s work. There was just something cool about the way they never cracked under the pressure. Take this moment from the 1995 men’s final, for instance, when Boris Becker smashed a return from Pete Sampras right into a ball boy’s temple and he just shook it off like the T-1000.

Unfortunately I never even came close, both literally and geographically. The selection process was rigorous. All Wimbledon ball boy candidates came from participating schools and mine in the Buckinghamshire countryside (LOL, English place names) was too far away from London to be one of them. Although the proximity probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I was in such awe of them, and I probably just assumed they appeared out of the mist like perfectly formed child ninjas, and I couldn’t compute the idea they all started out as just regular schoolchildren. Just like me.

Still, knowing what I know now, I can’t help but feel like I missed out on something, and I would still give anything to go back and be given a chance. Currently, there are only two things getting in my way: (1) I am 29-years-old, and (2) although the thought of enrolling in a London high school for a year just so I can participate on the peripheries of a tennis tournament sounds like a screenplay I’m definitely going to write one day, the commute from New York, where I live makes Wimbledon near impossible.

Thankfully, there’s the U.S. Open. Much like Wimbledon, the U.S. Open holds tryouts in mid-June for what they officially call “ballpersons.” (Never “ball people”, FYI, probably because it sounds too much like an alien race from a ‘50s sci-fi movie—Revenge of the Ball People.) There are 80 spots available, and they say they get hundreds of applicants who sign up weeks in advance and then line up for hours just for the opportunity to try out. But, there is no age cap. Anyone can apply. Plus, they have this thing called a “media call” before the official tryouts where journalists can—and I’m quoting the press release that landed in my inbox a few months ago—“experience the process firsthand and see if you have what it takes!”

And, well, I’m a member of the media. Obviously I don’t actually want to become a ball boy—again, that full time job thing—but a chance to try out was still an opportunity I never got in England. Could I have been part of that elite group of graceful on-court superstars had my circumstances been different? I needed to know.

It’s a hot day in June, and I arrive early. The “tryouts” were being held in Flushing Meadows where the U.S. Open is also played. I knew from experience it can be a maze to navigate, and I want as much time as possible to scope out the set up. After navigating a labyrinth of cranes and scaffolding, I approach Court 11, where the drills are set to take place.

“Are you covering the tryouts?” a rep asks. Yes. I am.

I look over his shoulder at the jumble of bloggers, writers, and local news crews already assembled—A.K.A. the competition. He explains that a demonstration is about to start soon where they’ll show us exactly what we’ll be doing, and then they’ll call us up to have our turn. Somehow a cocktail of eagerness and nerves bubbles up from within me and I can’t stop myself from excitedly blurting out: “You know I’ve always wanted to be a Wimbledon ball…person!”

The words barely leave my mouth and I’m already embarrassed, but also impressed I still used the correct term. Ballperson. “This is kind of a dream come true for me,” I confess, knowing full well how stupid that sounds coming from the mouth of a 29-year-old man. I can tell I’m the first person to have said this to him today, because he’s clearly not quite sure what to do with it.

“That’s great,” he says, doing his best to match my enthusiasm. “Except in the U.K. you guys roll the ball. Here you have to throw it the entire length of the court, so it’s a lot harder.”

“Is it?” I snap, which inadvertently amplifies the awkwardness of an what’s quickly becoming an unsalvageable conversation. As the words linger in the air, I make an excuse about needing to find the photographer who was being sent by GQ to photograph me and walk over to the stands a few feet away.

I come across a bubbly young woman in designer workout gear delivering an intro for whatever segment she’s filming into a camera. “Hi, I’m [name redacted] with [outlet redacted]. I’m in Queens New York at the U.S. Open ballperson tryout! Let’s see if I have what it takes.”

Once she gets the all clear from the cameraman that he’s stopped recording, her smile instantly vaporizes as she waits for her next cue.

The cameraman gives her the thumbs up. “Phew!” she says, snapping into character. “That was tough!”

I find myself sneering at the lack of enthusiasm. Then I remember I got so swept up in living out my boyhood fantasy that I totally forgot the day would require me to... exercise. (The last time I partook in demanding physical activity, I had the first iPhone.) Her perfectly human desire to not look like shit on camera was nothing to sneer at. It is, after all, a swelteringly hot day. Crap, maybe I should have thought of that?

Once my photographer arrives, we start to talk strategy, and I suddenly have an overwhelming desire for him to shoot me from very, very far away. The reps make the announcement that they have official Ralph Lauren USTA ball person uniforms for us to wear. My photographer tells me it’ll look better than the workout gear I’m wearing, a classic guy-who-never-goes-to-the-gym-random-t-shirt-and-swimming-trunks ensemble, so we walk over and I collect one.

“Do you get to keep it?” the photographer asks, as I wander off looking for somewhere to change.

I shrug. “I really hope they don’t want it back."

Once I’m changed, I find myself more nervous than I was before. This uniform looks so professional and I, by comparison, feel woefully underprepared. Do I need to stretch? Should I have brought water? What happens if I can’t do any of the drills? I get back to the court to see the demonstration has begun, but I’m too distracted to pay any attention. Suddenly I’m swept up with an awful thought: Maybe this whole thing was a terrible, terrible idea.

Someone snaps me out of my daze and taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and see a blonde woman in her mid-40s.

“Excuse me,” she says, “my son and I are looking for the official tryout. Can you show us where we should line up?”

I stare at her blankly. How should I know? Oh yeah. The uniform. She must think I’m one of the handful of real ballpersons involved in the presentation.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m not with the U.S. Open. I’m just trying out for a story. You see, it’s always been my dream…” I stop myself before going any further.

“Well, that’s very confusing,” she says as she turns around and walks off. It doesn’t bother me, however. She thought I looked the part, which, strangely, gives me a jolt of confidence. As the demonstration winds down, I hear the woman in charge of the operation asks who would like to go first. Newly emboldened, I step forward.

A young female ballperson introduces herself. She will be the one administering the test, and is wearing the same blue outfit I have on, except with a skirt instead of shorts.

“Oops, we wore the same thing,” I joke. “Awkward.”

She doesn’t laugh. Instead she has me head straight into drills.

The drills are far too boring for me to describe in any detail here. Just know it’s the same combination of running, crouching, scooping, and throwing you see ballpersons do on TV. As soon I begin running back and forth between the net and the baseline, I forget everything I was told. All I am able to think about is how exertion and dexterity seem to exist on two separate metaphysical planes. The more I am trying to summon one, the more the other diminishes; the quicker I run to a bouncing ball, the more likely I am to not be able to pick it up when I get there, and vice verse. But I’m collecting the balls. Although I’m not sure if I’ve done enough to guarantee a pass, I feel confident I couldn’t be doing any better.

Then I fuck up.

The final exercise is the full-court toss, aka the one they don’t do at Wimbledon. You have to throw three balls in quick succession and I am spent from running and crouching and scooping up tennis balls. My first throw goes wildly off course. Instead of reaching the intended destination at the other end of the court, the ball veers dramatically to the left and—there is no un-embarrassing way to say this—hits the ballperson evaluating me square on the shoulder.

It wasn’t hard. And it could never have injured anyone. But my heart still sinks to my feet. Anyone waiting to take their turn definitely would have seen it, and I just want the ground to break open and swallow me up.

When it’s all over, I sheepishly approach the ballperson testing me.

“So,” I stammer, gathering my breath, “did I make it?”

“Oh, you don’t find out now,” she says, jotting down some notes on a clipboard. "Write down your email address on this”—and here, she hands me a notecard—"and we’ll email you with your results* when we have them."

“Thanks very much,” I say, handing the note card back to her. My hands are trembling, and I start to walk away. “I’m sorry I hit you with a tennis ball.”

“Oh that’s okay,” she says. “I’ve been hit by much harder tennis balls than that.”

I go to get changed, and as I’m walk out of the bathroom in my civilian clothes, I’m approached by one of the reps—the one who handed me the Ralph Lauren uniform.

“How did you do?” he asks.

“Great,” I say, realizing he obviously didn’t see the pathetic attempt that unfolded. “They made me a ball boy right on the spot.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.”

“What did you think of the uniform?” he asks.

“You know it was really comfortable,” I respond. I’m self conscious about the fact I’m now going to have to take it home with me, and that it will forever be a reminder of the day’s epic failure.

He smiles. “That’s great,” he says. “Can we get it back now?”

*After multiple follow ups, I finally got my results this week. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t make the cut. (Did I mention I hit the person evaluating me with a tennis ball?) According to the official notes I was lacked in three critical areas: speed, agility, and distance throwing the ball. So, discounting the standing still part, the three things ball boys do. Great.